


The Brambles Are Bare, And I'm Hollow Inside.

by orphan_account



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Body Image, Depression, First Kiss, M/M, POV Second Person, Please please look at these, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Triggers:, also:, please read the authors note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is sad and his thighs don't look like thighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brambles Are Bare, And I'm Hollow Inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so as it said in the tags there is A LOT of triggers in this and for a little while, in the middle of writing this, I was debating just DROPPING it because it's so SO sad I'm not sure it will get many reads. But, I ended up finishing it and I'm actually really proud of it so I'm posting it anyway. The self harm in this is very very descriptive and I really don't want to be the cause of someone's relapse so if you think this will trigger you please don't read it. I didn't get this beta'd but I went over it multiple times so I think it should be alright. Sorry for the long note. [Disclaimer: I don't own 5sos or anyone mentioned in this story and it is purely a work of fiction.] [Title from the song Tales Of Outer Suburbia by Hands Like Houses]

You look at the boy across the stage and sigh. You think, _He’s Beautiful, and Wonderful, and Absolutely Perfect. I am Nothing. He would never love me,_ and the expression on your face doesn’t change. These thoughts plague you daily. They don’t phase you. You walk forward, sing your lines, and step back agian. You watch as He shares the mic with Calum. He and Cal sing and share smiles and laughter while you stand on your side of the stage - namely the opposite side - and focus on the guitar chords you know off by heart.  
  
  
By the end of the show (the last show of the tour, you think gratefully) you’re covered head to toe in sweat, and you can feel the beads rolling into last nights open cuts, but you don’t mind. It happens every night. It’s happened every night for 4 years; you’re used to it.  
  
  
You’re home. Well, to be more specific, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat, with the door locked. You look at your thighs. “Ugly,” you mumble. They are covered in a somewhat impressive amount of different scars; some Fresh; some Thin and White; some Pink and Puffy; some Red, Deep, and Angry. You see words, “FAT” is carved into your left leg in Fading, White scars. “GROSS” is on your right, scars no more than a month old. You run your fingertips lightly over your legs. The fresh cuts sting slightly, but the older ones feel bumpy and Odd. Your skin no longer feels like skin. There’s no room on your thighs for new cuts, so you lift up your shirt. “Nobody loves me,” you whisper as you dig into the sensitive skin a few centimetres above your belly button. You smile slightly as you see the blood bubbling quickly, before it begins to roll down towards your belly button and pools there. You create 5 more lines on your stomach, all equal in length and depth, before you’re satisfied.  
  
  
In a radio interview back home the next day, the woman asks, “okay, spill. Who takes the longest in the bathroom?”  
Everyone laughs and says, “Mikey takes at _least_ half an hour every night! We don’t know what he’s doing - he won’t tell us!” You just smile and shrug.  
  
  
You only eat when He asks you to. If He doesn’t notice, you suppose that you shouldn’t, either.  
  
  
One of the fans asks you on Twitter why you’re never in the pool at the same time as the rest of the boys. You pretend you didn’t notice.  
  
  
He stands at your door frame at 2 a.m, “c’mon, Mikey! We’re going for a midnight swim, please come with us!” He sticks his bottom lip out and gives you puppy eyes.  
“Okay, I’ll come outside with you. I’m not swimming, though. I don’t want to get wet.” He nods and smiles before running outside. You follow Him at a leisurely pace, before sitting on a lounge chair next to the pool. You watch with slight jealousy as the other boys fool around in the pool, splashing each other and goofing off. Calum says, “come in, Mikey!”  
You reply, “no, but thanks.”  
“Michael,” Ashton whines, “stop being a spoilsport!”  
“I’m not being a spoilsport, I’m simply not going in the water,” you reply quietly. _They Don’t Hate You, they Don’t Hate You, they Don’t Hate You. They’re Just Joking, they’re Just Joking, they’re Just Joking. They’re your Friends, they’re your Friends, they’re your Friends._  
“Fine, whatever, Mr. No-Fun!” You look away from the boys and down to your nervously fidgeting fingers. _It’s Okay, It’s Okay, It’s Okay_. Arms wrap under you and you feel yourself being lifted from the chair by a wet body - most likely Ash, with the drummer’s arms - and being dropped into the deep end of the pool. Chlorine gets into your eyes and stings your cuts and _You’re Okay, You’re Okay, You’re Okay._ _They’re Just Joking, they’re Just Joking, they’re Just Joking. They Didn’t Know, They Didn’t Know, They Didn’t Know,_ but, _it Stings, it Stings, it’s So Bad, So So Bad._ Your head bursts from the water, and you gasp for air, fake laughing a, “fuck you guys!” You hide the stinging pain and discreetly tuck your shirt into your pants so it doesn’t float up and reveal last night’s misadventures.  
“See,” Calum laughs, “not too bad!”  
“No, you’re right,” you laugh. Hide the pain, Hide the pain, Hide the pain.  
  
  
You and Luke walk up to your rooms before the others, and Luke says a small, “I’m really sorry.  know you didn’t want to get wet. I told them too. I don’t know why th-”  
“It’s fine, Luke. Honest. Thank you, I’ll see you in the morning.” He waits a moment before nodding and pulling you in for a tight hug. The wet, chlorine soaked shirt presses on the cuts once again and you feel one reopen as you and Luke separate. You quickly turn to your room and shut the door before Luke could notice the blood slowly staining the blue of your sweater.  
  
  
You pull the shirt off, rinsing the blood off in cold water before it can stain, and hanging it (along with your other clothes) on the shower rack. You put on fresh boxers but leave the pyjamas on the counter. You look at yourself in the mirror. Your Boring, Ugly self.  
Your Hair is Faded, who knows what colour it is anymore?  
Your Eyes are Dull. You can’t remember the last time you saw yourself with eyes full of light and energy.  
Nose and Mouth, well. Nothing Special.  
You continue this down your whole body. You Chest isn’t Toned enough, your Stomach isn’t Flat enough, your Thighs are far too Mangled to look like Thighs again, et cetera.  
“Disgusting,” you spit at the mirror before dragging the blade through your skin. Today is deeper than last night, the blood doesn’t even bubble before it begins to roll. You look at yesterdays cuts; the skin around them is Red and Irritated, although the cuts themselves have finally begun to scab. 3 more cuts, again equal in length and depth, before you put the blade back where it belongs. 10 total on your stomach. There’s So Much Room.  
  
  
You wake up to blood dried on your pyjama shirt and sigh, one of them reopened. _It could be Worse,_ you think, _it could’ve stained the sheets, too._ You quickly rinse the blood under cold water and change into a baggy grey sweater and jeans before walking down to the kitchen where the other boys are. “You okay, Michael? You look kind of pale,” Calum remarks.  
“I’m fine,” you smile, “just tired, is all.”  
Luke looks at you worriedly, “maybe you should eat something?”  
“Okay, I’ll have cereal, I guess.” He noticed, so you notice. You haven’t eaten more than a few nibbles here and there in 2 days. You sit at the table and listen to everyone talk about how nice it is to be back home, and off touring for the month. You don’t chime in your own thoughts, don’t have to. They’ve said it all.  
There’s a lull in the conversation before Ashton looks at you and says, “Mikey? How can you be wearing a sweater in the middle of January? It’s hot as hell!”  
You look up from your hands and mumble, “I’m not too hot.” It’s not a lie. You could wear a tank top if you wanted, you promised yourself at an early age that you would never mark somewhere visible. You just weren’t hot.  
“Are you sure?” Calum asks.  
“Yes,” you mutter before sighing, “would it make you more comfortable if I changed?” Calum and Ashton both nod and you sigh once again, walking back to your room and changing into an old band tee. “Better?” You ask when you return. Everyone nods.  
  
  
Calum and Ash leave shortly afterwards, and Luke looks at you with a smile, “whaddya wanna do, Mikey? I don’t think anyone is gonna be home for a while, 6 month anniversary and whatnot.” And, that’s right. Today is Calum and Ashton’s 6 month. You’d forgotten. You look at Luke and shrug, watching as he deflates slightly. “Wanna just like...hang out?” He suggests.  
“Sure,” you smile, “haven’t done that in a while.”  
  
  
You’re cuddled on the couch, talking endlessly about bullshit that’s been happening in your lives while you’ve been on tour, and remembering things from when you first became friends, and sometimes just sitting in silence, enjoying each other’s presence. You were currently at the point of comfortable silence, Luke running his fingers up and down your arm, when he mumbles, “what’s up with you, Mikey?”  
You feel your whole body stiffen on top of Luke as you stutter, “what- what do you mean?”  
He sighs before saying, “I mean that. Well,” another sigh, “when I first met befriended you, you were this shy boy who rarely left your room and didn’t socialise much with people you didn’t consider friends. And then, slowly but surely, you _grew!_ You became this happy, friendly boy who loved everyone and who could talk to anyone! And the band took off, and it was great, because you were so excited and I knew, I _knew,_ that you were getting better, and you-” He stops, and you feel His arm reach up to His face, probably wiping off a tear.  
You remember the time He’s talking about. You thought you were getting better, you thought, _hey! I’m becoming happy again and I’m going to be okay!_ But it didn’t happen. It left as quickly as it came, and it left you worse off than you were before.  
Luke takes a shaky breath before continuing, “you fell. You became your old self, only worse. And I’ve watched, watched in utter agony as one of my best friends becomes lower and lower. What’s wrong, Michael?” His voice is shaking and you can feel his tears dripping on to your the tips of your hair. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how I can help.”  
You feel a single tear roll down your cheek and you wipe it away harshly, “I’m sorry,” you whisper before getting off Luke and walking to your room.  
  
  
You stand in the bathroom once again, tears rolling down your cheeks and 10 new cuts bleeding on your tummy. They aren’t too deep, but they hurt all the same. _I hurt Luke,_ you think, _I Hurt Luke, I Hurt Luke, I Hurt Luke. How could I do that? I’m Sorry._ You drop the blade on the floor and watch as blood trickles Slowly Slowly Slowly down your pale skin. Your bedroom door opens and you freeze. You had locked the bathroom door but that’s not the problem. The Problem is that you can hear Luke asking where you are, and there’s still blood rolling down your stomach. “Just...just a moment,” you yell to the younger boy, flushing the toilet and turning the taps on while you dab at the blood and pull down your shirt. You look in the mirror and decide you look good enough for Luke’s expectations, and walk out of the bathroom.  
“Hey, Michael, are you okay? You just ran off, and I was w-” his words stop abruptly and you freeze. Were you bleeding through your shirt? No, he was looking over your shoulder. You’re sure you threw the tissues in the garbage, so you look behind you to see what He’s looking at. On the ground, a small piece of metal reflects the sunlight shining through the bathroom window. A Small, Blood Stained Piece of Metal. Your stomach drops and you hope Luke didn’t notice.  
“You were what? Sorry,” you ask, voice shaking.  
“Michael,” Luke whispers, “what. What’s that?” And He walks towards the bathroom.  
You reach out and grab his arm, “what’re you talking about?” You laugh awkwardly.  
“Let go of me,” He mutters, shaking His arm out of your loose grip and walking further into the bathroom. He stops, bends down, and comes back up with a Small Piece of Metal. A Small Piece of Blood Stained Petal.  
“I,” you stutter, “it’s-it’s not what you think!”  
“Really?” Luke asks, eyes welling up with tears, “because _I_ think that you have been using this to-” His voice cuts off, and He takes a deep breath in, saying a shaky, I think you’ve been using this to hurt yourself, Michael.”  
Your eyes drop to the ground and tears make everything fuzzy. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, nearly impossible for Luke to hear.  
“Don’t be sorry, Michael. I’m not mad at you, I wouldn’t be mad at you for something like this. Why didn’t you tell us?”  
“I didn’t want to, I guess. I didn’t want you guys to know, and I didn’t want you to treat me any different. Sorry. I’m-I was stupid.”  
“Hey!” Luke scolds, “don’t call yourself stupid! You are smart and wonderful and beautiful,  Michael Clifford. How could you think any different?” You shrug and He sighs, “will you at least tell me how long it’s been going on?”  
You choke out a, “4 years,” without looking up to see His reaction. When He stays silent, you finally look up from your feet to see tears rolling down His seemingly heartbroken face.  
He stutters out a repeat of your answer before saying, “can I hug you?”  
You nod, and Luke pulls you in for a tight hug. His tears roll on to the sleeves on your shoulder, but you don’t mind.  
When He finally pulls away, he says, “can-can I see them?”  
You bite your lip in worry before saying, “you can see the old ones. Not the new ones, though. Be prepared, ‘cause I don’t really. Look. _Normal?”_ You close your eyes, unbutton your jeans, and pull them down to your knees. Nobody has ever seen this, but Luke deserves to. _I’ve put him through so much shit,_ you think, _he deserves this._ You feel Luke run His fingertips over your mangled skin, hear Him whimper. It takes all your strength to hold in a sob of your own.  
“Oh, Mikey,” Luke whispers, “I’m so sorry.”  
  
  
You decide to wait until the next day to tell Calum and Ashton, so not to spoil their anniversary. Everyone’s sitting at the kitchen table in the morning, eating breakfast in silence, when Luke says, “are you going to tell them, or shall I?”  
“Are you dating or something?” Calum asks, “I saw that one coming from a mile away.”  
Luke glares, “no, we’re not dating. Michael. Uh. He hurt himself.”  
“Oh my god! Are you okay? Did you have to go to the hospital? Why didn’t you call us?” Ashton asks, obviously freaking out.  
“Not like that, Ash.”  
Calum’s eyebrows squish together, “what do you mean?” He whispers. The table is silent. “Please. Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”  
You nod.  
“Oh, Michael,” Ashton says sadly, “why?”  
You stay silent, eyes focused in your lap as you shrugs.  
“That stuff doesn’t matter, what matters is that we need to help you get better,” Luke says, sad eyes focused on you. You can feel Him looking at the side of your face, trying to see some type of emotion.  
“I’m-I’m really, really sorry, guys,” you mumble.  
“I told you, Mikey, you don’t need-”  
“I know,” you cut him off, “but I want to. So. Yeah, sorry.” You push your chair out and head to your bedroom, “you can tell them everything that happened, or whatever. I don’t care.”  
You’re at the bottom of the staircase when Calum asks in a hushed tone, “should he be in his room alone?”  
“I’m not a _fucking_ child, Calum.” You say angrily, “I don’t want to be treated like some type of _time bomb!_ I am a _human being,_ just like you guys! _Fuck.”_  
You don’t look to see Calum’s reaction, but you hear Luke say, “he gave me all his...stuff...yesterday,” before you stomp up the stairs and slam your door.  
  
  
You’re lying in bed, enjoying the silence, when Calum knocks on your door and enters your room, sitting on the corner of your bed. “Hey,” he says quietly.  
“Hi.”  
“I’m really sorry,” he sighs, “I just didn’t know what to do, y’know? I honestly never expected this and I-I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t mean to make you feel like a child, or anything like that. I honestly am sorry.”  
You smile at him, “it’s fine. I didn’t mean to yell at you, either. Sorry for that.”  
Calum nods, and is silent for a while, before taking a deep breath and saying, “Luke said you’d been doing it for 4 years. I just-I feel like an awful friend. Why didn’t I notice earlier? I could’ve helped you before it got this bad.”  
“It’s alright, Cal. How were you supposed to know when I didn’t want you to? It’s not your fault.”  
“I know, I know. I just. I feel bad.”  
“Okay.” He nods one last time before exiting your room.  
  
  
It’s 2 in the morning and you crave it. You crave the feeling of metal on skin, and the sight of bright red blood rolling down snow white skin. Your skin itches, and you can’t keep still. You toss and turn under the covers before you finally get out of bed and walk to Luke’s room, entering the darkness and whispering the younger boy’s name. He doesn’t wake up, and you feel bad. You feel wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. You need blood, and you need pain, and you need satisfaction. You whisper Luke’s name once again, a little louder and a little more desperately. “Please, please, please, please,” you whisper, fingernails digging into your palms. It hurts, sure, but it’s not enough. You feel a single tear escape your eye, and wipe it away harshly. “Luke, Luke, LukeLukeLuke _Luke_.”  
“Wha-Mikey? Is that you? Is something wrong?”  
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, something is wrong,” you speak fast, in a hushed tone, “I need help. Oh my god, I need help. Please help me, Luke.”  
“Of course I’ll help you, Michael,” Luke replies, already sounding more awake than He had less than a minute ago, “what’s wrong?”  
Your nails continue to dig into your palm, you think you’ve drawn blood by now but you aren’t sure. “I don’t know what to do,” you say shakily, “I don’t know how to make this feeling go away. It’s a bad feeling, Lukey. I don’t like it.”  
“What kind of feeling is it?”  
“It’s like a hunger. Or a craving. Like when you really want Macca’s fries, y’know? But it can’t be fed with fries. It’s a hunger that can only be fed with blood and pain and what do I do, Luke?”  
"Okay. Okay, Okay. Calm down, first of all. I know it’s tough but you have to stop thinking of that feeling, and think of something else. Focus on something.” You decide to focus on Luke. You think of His Voice, and His Eyes, and His Dimples, and His Everything. “Do you wanna stay with me tonight?” He offers.  
“Yes please,” you say quietly. He’s perfect, you think, _He’s Perfect and I’m too Fucked Up for Him. He doesn’t deserve someone as shitty as me._ “I think I need to wash my hands,” you mumble, “I think I’m bleeding.”  
“How?”  
“I-It was an accident. I promise.”  
You wash your hands, and crawl into Luke’s bed. It smells like Him, and you want to bury your face in the sheets. You want to bury your face in the sheets, and not come back until the sheets stop smelling like Him and smell like you instead.  
“I’m glad you came to me, Michael,” Luke says sleepily.  
“So am I,” you whisper, “good night, Luke.”  
“Good night, Michael.”  
  
  
You wake up in a bed that’s not yours, and memories of the night before come to you in a rush. You look at your palm and, sure enough, there are four scabs the size of your fingernails.  
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.  
Luke stirs, “‘s’alright,” He slurls sleepily.  
“No, no it’s not,” you sigh, “but whatever. I’m going to get dressed, and whatever.”  
“Hey,” Luke says, grabbing your hand and looking into your eyes before you can leave, “I’m glad you came for help, Mikey. Please, please don’t feel bad for doing something like that.” You nod, and He finally lets go of your hand, allowing you to leave His room.  
  
  
The band announces that they’ll be taking a small break, that all future tour dates will be rescheduled, and all tickets refunded. _“We need some time to work out personal issues, and to be with our families. Please don’t worry about us, we’ll tell you when we’re ready. We love you xx,”_ is written on the site.  
“I’m so sorry,” you say.  
“It’s totally fine, Mikey. We needed a break anyway,” Ash replies. You smile at him at nod.  
  
  
Calum and Ashton are out with their families together, but Luke’s family are all at work, and you two are home alone. “You have to tell your mum soon,” He says.  
“I know. Will you come with me? Please?”  
He smiles, nods, and takes your hand to drag you to see your family right away.  
  
  
Your mom cries. She cries and cries and says, “Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, I’m so sorry, so so sorry!”  
You say, “it’s not your fault mum, of course it’s not,” and, “let’s meet for coffee or something tomorrow, okay?” She nods fiercely and you plan to meet at some local coffee shop the next day at noon.  
Once you’ve left, Luke says, “you could’ve gone now, y’know.”  
“I know,” you tell Him, “but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”  
“Oh,” He smiles, “thank you.”  
  
  
You meet your mom for coffee the next day and It’s Nice. It’s Nice to sit with her and talk and drink warm drinks after not seeing her for months and months. It’s Nice when you hold the mug in your hand and then the warmth spread through your body and calm you. It’s Nice when your mother tells you about how proud all her friends are of your band. It’s Nice when you say, “Mom, I think I need advice.”  
And It’s Nice when she says, “what kind of advice?”  
And It’s Nice when you tell her, “I think I have a crush. On Luke.”  
And It’s Nice when your mom smiles at you and says, “I think that’s cute, Mikey. How does he feel about you?”  
“I’m not sure,” you say. _Probably not the same,_ you think. That’s not nice.  
But she says, “I’m sure he thinks more highly than you think he does. I think you should tell him!” It’s Nice she thinks that. It’s not as nice that she’s wrong, but you’re glad she has high hopes.  
You say, “thank you, Mom. For the coffee and the advice. When can we hang out again?”  
She says, “you should bring the boys over for dinner this weekend! Text me!” And you agree and the two of you part and It’s Nice.  
  
  
You get home and they boys ask, “how was coffee with your mum?”  
“It was good. She wants all of us to come for dinner this weekend. Is that cool?” Everyone agrees quickly and you text your mum to tell her you will be coming over Saturday for dinner.  
  
  
Not much happens before Saturday. You hang out with the boys, mostly Luke when He isn’t seeing his family, and you try to make yourself better. And then it’s Saturday and everyone is crammed in a car with Ashton driving to your mother’s house for dinner. You walk in the door and say, “hello, Mom!”  
She says, “hello, Boys!” and you sit in the kitchen and watch her cook, occasionally offering to help but having said offer declined.  
  
  
By the time you have left your mom’s house, it is 11 p.m, and you are exhausted. You walk through the front door to the house and say, “I’m beat, guys. I’m heading to bed, goodnight!” The others bid you goodnight, and you walk up the stairs to your room.  
You’re laying in bed, PJ’s on and eyes drooping, when you hear your name being whispered.  
“Mikey? Are you asleep. You are, sorry-”  
“No,” you mumble.  
“Oh,” He says, “well, it’s Luke.” You resist the urge to snort, of course you know it’s Luke, you would know His Voice anywhere.  
“Hey.”  
“Hey. Um, I can’t sleep, I think it’s a full moon, so can I stay with you tonight?”  
“Oh! Yeah, sure,” you say, scooting to the right side of your bed and patting the left, “there’s tonnes of room.”  
“Thanks, Mikey,” He says, sliding under the covers. It’s silent for a moment, before Luke whispers, “hey, Michael?”  
“What’s up?”  
“Are you okay? Like. I don’t expect you to be totally better yet, at all, but are you at least a little bit better?”  
You feel your stomach drop to your toes and you wonder if it’s possible to eat your whole body in one bite. You don’t want to talk about this. But you don’t want to let Luke down. _Don’t Let Him Down. Don’t Let Him Down. Don’t Let Him Down Don’t Let Him Down Don’t Let Him Down._ So you say, “I’m not sure. Maybe? I don’t really remember what normal feels like, so I don’t know if I’m any closer to it. That probably means I’m not, though.” You want to die. You want to throw yourself into a pit of boiling acid and die immediately. You’ve Let Him Down. Don’t Let Him Down. You did. “Sorry,” you mumble.  
“Why are you sorry?”  
It feels as if there was a wall guarding your words. There was something that was stopping you from being honest to everyone. But that wall, that Stupid, Weak (just like you) wall, broke. It crumbled (just like you), and you feel words pouring out of your mouth.  
“I just,” you begin, “I feel so. I don’t know! Some days, I think I’m getting better. Like when I got coffee with my mum, I felt really really good that day! And today, I was feeling great most of the day! But, other days, I feel like absolute _shit._ Some days, when you’re out visiting family and Calum and Ashton are out together, I feel so _lonely_. Which - I don’t want to stop you from seeing your family, or stop Calum and Ashton from going out together, but. I don’t like to be alone. When I’m alone I fear for myself. Because, when I’m alone in the house, I feel Alone. I feel Alone in the worst way you can feel Alone. I feel like nobody cares for me, and nobody wants me here, and the band would be better without me, and I just want to leave. And I know, it’s not true. It’s Not True. It’s Not True It’s Not True It’s Not True. But it feels True. God, I want to be normal. I Want to be Better and I Want to be Not Sad and I Want to have Clean Legs and I Want to be Wanted and I Want to be Normal. Why can’t I be Normal. God, I sound so stupid. I am Stupid. I’m Stupid and Dumb and Weak and Not Normal and I am Sad and I Hate Myself. I Hate Myself, Luke. I don’t want to Hate Myself, but I Do. I’m so low. Low, Low Low. I need help. I don’t want help. I don’t want to talk to someone about my problems. I need to be less Alone. Less Alone and Less Sad and More Clean and More Important. That’s what I need to be. Clean and Important. Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m Sorry, Luke. I love you, I’m Sorry. I’m crying. I’m so dumb. Good night.” You wipe the tears from your cheeks, and breathe shakily. Luke doesn’t say anything. _I scared Him,_ you think, _I scared him and I am a mess. Why did I say all that to him. I fucked up. I Scared Him._ And then you fall asleep.  
  
  
When you wake up, Luke is gone. You look at the clock. 12:24 p.m, it reads. Your stomach growls. It’s lunchtime. You can’t eat though, He hasn’t said anything.  
You walk downstairs, and see the boys huddled together at the table. It’s obvious they were talking about you. “What?”  
“You should eat something,” Calum says.  
“Nah,” you say, “not hungry. He didn’t notice.  
“Please,” Luke says.  
You sigh, “fine.”  
“Michael?” Ashton asks.  
“Yes?”  
“You don’t have to, of course, but. Can we, uh. See your scars. I know Luke saw some, but-”  
“Why.”  
“I just. I wanna know how bad it was. We want to, I mean. Also, we wanna see the ones on your tummy. If it’s alright.”  
“Is this a check?”  
Ashton’s eyes widen, “what?”  
“Are you checking to make sure I haven’t done it again? Because I haven’t.”  
“No,” Calum says calmly, “we wouldn’t do that. We trust you.”  
You glare, “fine. Not right now, though.”  
  
  
They react basically the same as Luke had, although He still gasps at the sight. _It’s because you’re Ugly,_ you think, _Ugly and Unnatural_. You say, “sorry it’s so gross. I. I dunno.”  
“Don’t apologise.”  
“Sorry.”  
  
  
You’re at a park with Calum and Ashton. It’s 10 p.m but Luke is at his parents’ for the night and you, Cal, and Ash wanted to play on some swings. So it’s 10 p.m, and you’re sitting on a squeaky swing between your two friends, silence enveloping the three of you.  
“Hey,” you almost-whisper, trying not to disturb the calm.  
“Yeah?” Ashton almost-whispers back.  
“I need advice. I asked my mum, but she gave Mom Advice, which is different from real advice.”  
“Okay,” Calum says, “go ahead.”  
You take a deep breath, count to three and say, “so, I like Luke-”  
“What? Really?” Ashton asks, “I was just joking about the dating thing. Oh my god.”  
“Shut up. Yes, Really. But I don’t know what to do about it. Don’t tell me to tell him because then you’re just giving me Mom Advice.”  
Both boys sigh before Calum says, “Mikey, if you don’t tell him, you’ll regret it. It can go one of two ways: either he likes you back and you get together or he doesn’t like you back and you put the event behind you and continue being friends. That’s it. There’s no third option. This won’t make things awkward between you two. So, unfortunately, I have to give you the dreaded Mom Advice.”  
“Thanks, Cal,” you say sincerely, “I appreciate it. Really.”  
  
  
The next day, at approximately 2 p.m, Calum and Ashton are out visiting their families, and you and Luke are watching a movie. It’s an Indiana Jones rerun that just happened to be on the Movie Channel but you’ve seen it about eight hundred times and you’re bored. _I should say it,_ you think, _I have time now. I should do it._  
Your heart rate doubles and there is a gymnast in your stomach as you mumble out a meek, “Luke?”  
The younger boy turns to face you, muting the television. “Yeah?”  
“I, uh. I have something to tell you, I guess.”  
“Oh. Okay. What’s up?” He asks, turning the TV fully off and focusing his attention on you.  
You take a shaky breath, “please. Uh. Please don’t laugh at me.” He nods. “Basically. Um. My mum and also Calum told me to tell you so I’m going to, but. Okay. Okay Okay Okay. So. I like you.” You look away from His Eyes and down to your hands, where your fingers are fidgeting. You’re going to puke. He hasn’t said anything. He’s silent. Silent Silent Silent. Oh No. There’s two outcomes. No there’s not. He could hate you. He could hate you and say, _‘what the fuck, Michael? Gross!’_ Or he could begin to cry and say, _‘Oh No. Oh No Oh No Oh No I’m so Sorry. I’m Sorry Michael Oh my God.’_ He still hasn’t replied. You don’t know if he’s looking at you because you’re looking at your fingers. Your fingers, which dance a choreography that the greatest dancer would pay to know. He hasn’t replied and you are watching your fingers and you are crumbling. You are a mess. A big old Mess.  
And then He speaks. Words come out of His mouth and it is glorious. He says, “Oh. Oh my God. Are you serious?”  
It’s not glorious.  
Was that a good, ‘are you serious?’  
Was that a good, ‘Oh my God?’  
“Um. Yes?”  
“Oh my God.”  
You don’t look up from your fingers. They have stopped moving. The dancers have fallen along with the silence, and you don’t know if it was a good fall or a bad fall, but you don’t like it.  
“I’m Sorry,” you say, “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. It’s going to be awkward now. Awkward and bad. Bad Bad Bad. I’ll just leave the band. You never have to see me again or think about me again. It wIll be okay. I’m Sorry.”  
You stand up, ready to leave, when Luke grabs your wrist. “No,” he almost-whispers.  
“Why.”  
“Because. I, uh. I like you too.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, that’s good then.”  
“Yeah, it is,” He laughs. _He’s lying,_ you think, _He’s lying to make you feel better._  
You stay silent.  
“Do you wanna, like. Go. Do something?” He asks. “Like. Like a date.”  
You say, “okay.” And that’s that.  
  
  
He asks you out in the middle of your date, when you are walking through the mall and your hands are brushing against each other. He says, “so, Mikey?”  
And you say, “yes, Luke?”  
“Do you wanna like. Go out. Like properly, officially and all?”  
“Yeah.” And so you do.  
  
  
He grabs your hand soon after.  
  
  
You tell Calum and Ashton at dinner that night and they say, “we’re proud of you!” And Ashton makes a joke about being “a band full of gays,” and you all laugh.  
  
  
You and Luke have been going out for about a week. You’re cuddled on His bed, your head on His chest and your right hand in His left, while His right hand slowly rakes through your hair.  
“Luke?” You mumble.  
“Yeah?”  
“I’m still sad,” you say it and feel bad.  
You can hear Luke’s smile as he says, “that’s Okay. I didn’t expect you to be happy right away.”  
“I did,” you confess. “But I’m not. I’m still Sad and Alone and Low.”  
“I’m sorry you feel Sad and Alone and Low. I hope that, over time, I can make you feel better. And It’s Okay if it takes two months for you to feel better and It’s Okay if it takes twenty years for you to feel better because I will stay with you the whole time, and I will do everything I can to help you along the way. Okay?”  
You wipe a tear from the corner of your eye and say, “Okay. Thank you, Luke.”  
“You’re welcome, Mikey. Please tell me when you are sad, so I can help you.” You nod, and He kisses the top of your head. You sit up and look at Him properly. A large smile covers His face.  
You say, “you’re beautiful.”  
You say, “can I kiss you?”  
He nods. You lightly press your lips to His. It’s a light kiss, barely there. _It’s Perfect,_ you think.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I want to say that I absolutely do not agree with anything Michael is thinking about himself and I think he is wonderful and idk just in case. Also, if you are feeling sad or depressed or something and you want someone to talk to, please check out my tumblr! oldgrayvevo.tumblr.com  
> constructive criticism is welcome!!


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